


A Touch Too Much

by Patr0clus



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gender is unspecified, Other, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22996801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patr0clus/pseuds/Patr0clus
Summary: Since you came from a people who valued physical intimacy as the pinnacle of showcasing all forms of affection--platonic, romantic, or otherwise--touch was written into the very nature of your being. While you tended to tone down this penchant for physical contact with those who were not of your kind, it was an integral part of who you were. And you would be damned if one prickly Mandalorian was going to change that.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 128





	A Touch Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> In which Mando is touch-starved, but he'd never actually admit to that

Pre-Empire ships were easy to recognize. It was the sound of them, the thrum of their engines ringing deep and powerful, suggesting a lasting durability that could only come from high quality construction and even higher quality materials. When hovering over a vacant lot for touch-down they would set the air alight with vibrations strong enough to shake the marrow in your bones. Being a mechanic, you'd seen ships of countless makes and varieties grace your shop. But, as the time since the Empire's rise and fall stretched to decades, the prevalence of these specific vessels declined exponentially. Of course, this made them all the more distinctive from their sleeker modern counterparts. This particular ship was exceedingly simple for you to recognize because in addition to being pre-Empire, the cadence of its whirring engine was familiar on a personal level. Shoving your googles up to sit high on your forehead and dropping the partially constructed circuit in your hands, you stood with what could only be described as barely concealed excitement. Each step you took seemed to fall silently as the reverberating drone of the landing ship shook the ground and consumed their impact. Arms outstretched, you strode out of the squat hangar bay turned workshop with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.  
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite bounty hunter on the Outer Rim!”  
The Razor Crest was still humming with energy as you stepped outside, radiating warmth into the chill of the air. It looked as if the Mandalorian had just stepped off board. Rays of harsh midday sun bounced off the beskar of his helmet, and the deep crimson of his his body armor looked more battle worn than it had the last time you saw him. You closed the space separating the two of you with only a couple strides. Clapping your hands onto the cold pauldrons covering his shoulders you drew yourself in, brushing your forehead almost imperceptibly against his own. A tension mounted in his shoulders that set you on edge, and you could’ve sworn you heard the modulated filter of his voice draw in a breath. But when you moved away, brows furrowed with concern, his posture was relaxed and his dark visor betrayed nothing. It must’ve just been your imagination.  
“It’s good to see you again.” You said with a grin.  
A noncommittal grunt was his only reply.  
“Always so talkative, I don’t know how I stand it.” Your hands trailed down from his shoulders to rest at the junction of his elbows, unarmored and only covered by a thick layer of fabric.  
Since you came from a people who valued physical intimacy as the pinnacle of showcasing all forms of affection--platonic, romantic, or otherwise--touch was written into the very nature of your being. While you tended to tone down this penchant for physical contact with those who were not of your kind, it was an integral part of who you were. And you would be damned if one prickly Mandalorian was going to change that. The first time you attempted such contact, a simple hand on his upper back steering him towards supply storage, you thought you were going to end up with your arms no longer attached. If there was one thing stories of Mandalorian warriors did not exaggerate, it was their quick reflexes and strength. As much as you would have loved to have a mysterious bounty hunter bend you over your workbench under different circumstances, the searing pain of your arm being wrenched behind you and the fear that it would be removed from its socket did wonders to curb your libido. He didn’t apologize, but as he refrained from inflicting (any further) bodily harm to any subsequent touches you took it as one.  
“But! How could I forget, my real favorite customer.”  
Releasing your grip on him to wave a hand you gestured over to the hulking form of the Razor Crest.  
“What’ve you done with her now, Mando?”  
“Last couple jobs have been more," there was a pause as he shifted his balance from foot to foot "Involved... than they usually are. Hasn’t been flying right since.”  
That was an understatement. The Razor Crest was dented in places you previously hadn't thought it was possible to dent. And on top of that the soot black scorches of blaster fire coating its body still looked fresh.  
“I’ll... give it a quick once over and see what I can do. Hold tight!”  
You snapped your goggles back into place before settling your hand into the unarmored dip between his shoulder and neck. With one last reassuring grip you spun to face your newly assigned quarry.  
“I’ll have her up and running again in no time.” You said with a grin.  
Hand now fiddling with the datapad clipped onto one of your many belts, you swiped through the schematics you had saved detailing the Razor Crest, eager to get to work.  
“Hey wait--”  
You stopped dead in your tracks. It wasn’t like you could continue forward, not with the smooth leather of his glove grasped onto your forearm.  
“Did you need something else?” you asked with what could have only been confusion coloring your tone.  
The shock of cool leather bleeding through your shirt’s thin fabric was more than enough to grab your attention. This was uncharacteristic of him, he had never initiated contact with you before and seemed to avoid it when possible. And yet, for as steady and unyielding as his grip was it also contained a gentleness.  
“No.” His thumb traced idle circles on your inner arm as he spoke. “But, take your time with the ship. There’s no need to rush.”  
“Of course.”  
Despite your reassurance his grip didn’t loosen. Instead a tug drew you in closer. Beskar steel had a smell to it, you’d never noticed it before, but here pressed flush to his chest, the sharp clean metallic odor was all you could think about. The weight of his hand on the back of your neck went unnoticed as he tilted his head downwards, pushing against your nape so you did the same. There was a soft clink as your goggles tapped against the steel of his helmet, and your heart rate seemed to double. But, the Mandalorian held you steady, warm skin against beskar as your foreheads rested on one another.  
“Thank you.” he said, releasing his hold on you but not making any move to step back.  
“There’s no need to thank me, Mando, I’m just doing my job!” you said, letting out a short laugh to cover how the statement held an air of surprise.  
He hummed in return and your face felt hot, the slight jitter in your chest growing into a persistent flutter. Despite the darkened visor, you knew he was watching you as you turned on heel and stalked towards the Razor Crest. Work would put your mind at ease, you were sure of it. But as minutes bled into hours the thought of him still sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.  
It was dark when you returned to the workshop, the sun having long since set. Sweat had gathered above your brow though the air was tinged with chill. Walking back into the artificial light of your shop you raised a grimy hand to your forehead, wiping it dry at least, if not clean. The datapad clattered on the workbench and you slumped into your chair, head in hands and elbows propped up on the table's surface. A heavy sigh slipped past your lips as you took a moment in silence. Every part of your body ached.  
There was a shifting behind you, followed by the echoed clunks of boots moving across stone flooring. At that sound you shot up in your chair, back rigid, smile plastered back onto your face and turned to full brightness.  
"Mando!" You said, trying to mask the tiredness in your voice. "I didn't realize you were still here, figured you had business on planet to attend to or…"  
Your voice petered out as the Mandalorian settled himself close. Each of his arms slid into place on either side of you, allowing him to place his hands on the workbench while he hovered over your seated frame. His chest was pressing into the line of your back, and judging by the smooth curve of it he had removed some of his (many) armaments before doing so. Some still awake part of you found the wherewithal to be thankful for this fact.  
"Were you able to figure out what was wrong?" He asked. In response you pulled the pad closer, spinning it to face you both.  
"Why don't you see for yourself."  
He grasped the datapad in hand and began to swipe through the pages of schematics. Anywhere red could be, red was. The sheer amount of offline or malfunctioning systems was ludicrous, it was a miracle he was even able to drag his sorry excuse of a ship into your workshop. After giving each page a once over he let out a hum and a single nod that was by far too understated for the situation at hand. You couldn't find it in yourself to be exasperated. This was almost entirely because in making himself comfortable leaning over you, the Mandalorian had drawn you into him even closer. His arms put off a comforting heat as they tightened around you, and he had slotted his head into the crook of your neck, resting on your shoulder as he studied the pad. Where his wrist bent to hold the pad properly you saw the leather of his glove had peeled free of his sleeve, revealing a sliver of skin the color of burnished gold. It was hard to tamp down the glow of happiness at the knowledge that he considered you familiar enough to be this close with you. But it also sparked confusion, this level of physical intimacy--gentle touches and warmth of presence--did not come naturally to those of his creed.  
What you did next did not feel like a conscious decision. Sliding your hand across the counter you ran it up his forearm and slipped your fingers around the bare skin of his wrist. Even there, on such a small unassuming patch of skin, your fingertips felt the harshly raised lines of old scars. You let your fingers dance across them. An intense desire struck you through to the bone as you were hit with the desperate want to tug his glove off completely and trace your fingers across his palm. The need to hold his hand in your own, bring it to your face and kiss each scarred knuckle, was all encompassing. You refrained. Silence filled the workshop, broken only by the nearly imperceptible sound of the Mandalorian's quickened breathing through the distortion of his vocal filter.  
"What are you doing, Mando?" you asked, voice seemingly muffled by the quiet.  
He didn't pretend to not know what you were talking about.  
"This is part of your culture isn't it?" he answered. It was the first time in all your years of knowing him that you had heard uncertainty creep into his voice. Was he not expecting you to question this?  
"Yes," you said, turning towards him. The tip of your nose brushed against the cold metal of his helmet. "But it’s not a part of yours. Please don't feel like you have to do this on my behalf."  
"No, of course not I just--"  
The sentence was left abandoned as you gave his wrist a squeeze, reveling in the pliant give of skin on skin. Slowly, you slid your thumb underneath the leather of his glove and ran it gently over the back of his hand, memorizing every tendon and scar. With a sharp intake of breath, the Mandalorian stood. All contact between the two of you was broken, leaving the chilled night air as your only embrace.  
"It's getting late." He said, the statement held a finality to it that you didn't feel like testing. From the corner of your eye you could see him tucking his glove back into his sleeve, fastening the armor tight around his forearm so that it would not slip free again anytime soon.  
"That it is. I won't have the Crest fixed tonight but she should be ready for you by midday tomorrow."  
Rising up from where you had been seated, you turned to face him. You clutched both of your hands behind your back to keep yourself from placing a hand on his shoulder or elbow unintentionally. It didn't take a genius to figure that any contact at this point wouldn't end well.  
"Feel free to use your ship's quarters to bed down for the night." Screwing your eyes shut you continued. "Or, you could use the spare room I have. It's probably more comfortable and you know it's always available for you to use."  
When you opened your eyes again you could just see him striding towards his ship through the dark night.  
"No, of course not." you sighed.  
Settling into the down of your blankets you found yourself trying not to think of the Mandalorian. But your bed felt too empty, and you couldn't help but lament the fact that his form was not weighing a depression next to yours in the mattress. Beskar steel was cold, solid to the touch, and shockingly unyielding, but you think you could get used to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Must get lonely under all that beskar


End file.
